


many times we were tragic

by blue--phantom (twilightscribe)



Series: we deserve a soft epilogue [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Au Ra Warrior of Light, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, One Shot, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 20:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10670241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightscribe/pseuds/blue--phantom
Summary: He can't lose him and yet he came impossibly close to it. Now, he must deal with the aftermath.Loose sequel toand we slept a hundred years.





	many times we were tragic

“I wish that Ser Aymeric could be here to hear it,” Lucia says.

Alphinaud frowns, “Is he away on other business?”

It doesn’t sound like Aymeric, to not be here when they arrive. He’s always been here and has _always_ been pleased to see them – to see _him_. Durae can’t imagine that there’d be anything more important to Aymeric than learning what fruit their diplomatic mission has reaped.

“If only that were so,” Lucia casts her eyes down. “I’m afraid, however, that isn’t the case. He is currently a bed recovering from an assassination attempt of two days passed.”

“What?!”

“How is he?” Durae asks, softly.

Though she tries, her smile is a weak one, “He was quite lucky that Lord Artoirel and Lord Edmont were with him at the time; else his wounds might have been mortal. However, the chirurgeons have assured me that he will make a full recovery with time.”

Biting his lip, Durae looks at her nervously and asks, “May I see him? Not that I don’t trust them or their skills, but–”

“You would rather see him for yourself. Yes, I understand,” Lucia smiles. “He’s resting in his quarters for now. I’ll have one of the knights escort you there; take as long as you need, Master Arulaq. Count Edmont has been sitting with him, but I’m certain he would be heartened greatly to have you at his side for a time.”

She turns to a nearby knight, clearing her throat and saying loudly, “Please escort Master Arulaq to the Lord Commander’s rooms.”

“Well,” Thancred comments, crossing his arms. “It looks like _someone_ left out a couple of things in that tale of theirs…”

“I’ll explain everything later. Promise,” Durae says to Thancred, before he follows the knight into an adjoining hallway.

Having never been beyond the entrance rooms and Aymeric’s office before, Durae is grateful for the knight’s guidance, as he’s certain that he would easily become lost in the hallways that make up the headquarters of the temple knights. There’s very little in the way of distinguishing characteristics; all the walls and doors look practically the same, with nothing to mark the way.

The knight stops before a set of dark double doors, which are both decorated with the crest of the temple knights. He snaps to attention, then knocks heavily on the door.

“Master Arulaq is here to see the Lord Commander,” he calls out.

The door opens, revealing Edmont standing there. He looks tired, dark circles under his eyes, and much older than he was when Durae first met him. Yet, he still smiles warmly when he sees Durae, “Ah, it is good to see you, my friend. Do come in; Ser Aymeric has been asking after you.”

Behind him, Durae can see Aymeric already pushing himself up in bed. His eyes soften immediately when he sees Durae and he smiles, which makes Durae’s heart leap up into his throat and tears burn in his eyes.

 _He could have lost him_.

“Durae…”

He’s got absolutely no dignity and he doesn’t care who sees him hurry to Aymeric’s side. He ignores the chair at the bedside, his knee sinking into the soft mattress as his hand is clasped between both of Aymeric’s, the other cupping the side of the man’s face.

Aymeric eases back into the mountain of pillows he has supporting himself, fine lines of pain easing as he does, “Ah, how heartened am I to see you again, my love. Please, tell me that you bring good tidings.”

“That can wait,” Durae says, voice shaking. “Let me have a look at you.”

Tightening his hold on Durae’s hand, Aymeric shakes his head, “Do not worry, it has been tended to. Though, I’m afraid that my bandages may need changing shortly…”

“Then I’ll do it,” Durae says. He smiles, gives in, and kisses Aymeric softly. “You forget, I’m a fully trained white mage. Let me take a look.”

“I could never forget your talents,” Aymeric responds. “But you should not worry; I will survive, I have been assured, and will make a complete recovery.”

“I’ve been told.”

There’s a tray now sitting at his side, likely left by Edmont, that contains a salve he recognizes and clean bandages. He sends a quiet thank you to the count, before he sets to work; which forces him to abandon Aymeric’s hands, in favour of carefully removing the bandages from around his ribs.

It’s an ugly wound. Though it’s long since scabbed over, it’s deep – Durae can tell – and placement means that it narrowly missed his lung. Aymeric has been lucky indeed. His hands tremble as he places the bloodied bandages aside, shoulders hitching and he clasps a hand over his mouth. There are too many ways in which it could have been fatal; could have been worse and Durae’s mind runs through all of them in rapid succession.

The urge to weep – from fear, from relief, from gods only know what – is a strong one.

“Love?” Aymeric grasps his hand tightly.

“You–” He takes a deep breath, shoulders shuddering. _I could have lost him like –_ but he cuts that thought off. Estinien is still a fresh wound to the both of them; he cannot fear for them both, not now, not when Aymeric needs him to stay focused. “You were lucky. It nearly hit your lung.”

“Ah, yes. One of the chirurgeons said something similar,” Aymeric says. “But it did not and I am alive. I will not leave you so easily.”

“I can heal it, though, do not worry,” Durae says, focusing on the task at hand. He narrows his eyes at the tremble in his hands till it stops. “But it will still scar and the area will be tender for at least a week; you should avoid doing anything strenuous until it’s fully healed.”

Aymeric smiles, “Then I suppose your welcoming gift will have to wait.”

“You…” Durae clears his throat, glancing away as his cheeks warm up. “You are absolutely incorrigible.”

“Only where you are concerned,” he replies. He clasps a hand tightly over Durae’s, and chucks him under the chin, forcing him to meet his eyes, “Durae, I promise you: you will not lose me yet. I will be fine.”

The tears threaten to spill over. Durae swallows them back, swallows back the ache in his chest because _he should be here too_ and nods. His voice is choked, catching in his throat, “I know. Thank you.”

“You may see to my wound, if only so that you will stop your worrying. But please, tell me what news you bring. I pray that it is good.”

“Vidofnir has agreed to treat with Ishgard on behalf of her people,” Durae says, taking a deep breath. He needs to concentrate, to focus. It will be brief, but powerful, what he does, but the wound will be gone and he can stop his worrying – no need, then, to fear an infection and drawn out bout of illness.

“Excellent! I am heartened to hear it.” Aymeric watches him closely, then says, softly, “I realize now that I have not yet actually seen you work white magic. Is it quite different from what the chirurgeons do?”

Durae smiles, “Trust me, my love, it’s much more powerful. What I can do is _much_ different.”

With a deep breath and slow exhale, he tugs gently on the ambient aether, guides it with his own, and turns all his focus on Aymeric’s wound.

For a moment, everything goes very still. He can feel the ebb and flow of the aether around him, within him, and it pulses in time to the beat of his heart. It swirls around him, converging on the wound and the flesh knits itself back together under the blindingly bright white light that his magic conjures.

The stillness is broken when he draws a breath, hand wavering in the air above the now scarred flesh. He sways in place, strangely light-headed for a moment, before he pulls in another breath and steadies himself.

Aymeric watches him, eyes wide, “Love, are you…?”

“I’m alright,” Durae murmurs, leaning down to rest his forehead against Aymeric’s shoulder. “I have healed worse before. I just… I came so close to losing you. I cannot stop thinking about that.”

Gathering him close, Aymeric presses his lips to his temple, “I know, my love. And for that, I am sorry. Can you find it in yourself to forgive me?”

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Words:** 1419 words
> 
> So, I wrote a sequel (of sorts) to [and we slept a hundred years](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10333667). Except it's not really a sequel because they don't really connect aside from both featuring Durae. While I was playing, I was inspired to write a scene and felt a fic coming on, this is the result. Hopefully, those out there in this tiny fandom enjoy it. <3 There's likely more to come, because I ship A Thing and I'm gonna make it a thing, so... yeah.


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